Falling and Catching
by Haelia
Summary: Five times Foggy intervened on behalf of Matt's health, and one time Matt did it for Foggy. A collection of 6 H/C one-shots. Rating for language, graphic depiction of injuries and illness. No pairings.
1. Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

**a/n**

 **Greetings and welcome to my very first Daredevil fanfic! I'd like it noted that I am not familiar with the comics in the slightest, so all work corresponds with the TV-verse. I should also state that I am not super familiar with the Marvel universe as a whole, so please correct me if I make any silly errors in that regard.**

 **The chapters you are about to read are disjointed - oneshots, all; and in no particular chronological order. Please refer to the notes at the beginning of each chapter for some idea of where they take place in the chronology. Thank you and please enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 1: Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

Missing scene from between "Speak of the Devil" and "Nelson v. Murdock." In which Foggy finds Matt half dead, puts two and two together, and doesn't call an ambulance.

* * *

Foggy's heart is in his throat as his fingers hesitate, hovering over the edge of the mask. He already knows. He knows he knows. He's been looking at that mug for years - _years_ \- he knows that's Matt's nose, Matt's lips, Matt's jaw. Matt's blood. Okay, no, he's not all that familiar with Matt's blood as it relates to other people's blood, but whatever, that's not the point. The point is that the so-called terrorist, the man in the mask, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, is… is…

"Matt?"

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach he's found his nerve and lifted the mask - and yeah, it's Matt. Why his lips formed it into a question is another story. Maybe it's because he doesn't want it to be Matt. "Shit… shit…"

Matt's eyes are fluttering, rolling sightlessly, his left arm flopping uselessly. He tries to talk, but it just comes out a whisper and then a groan.

How, _how?_ Why? Foggy bends close to him, his right hand going for his phone again, his left tapping his friend's face. "Matt. Matt, talk to me."

"Foggy…?"

"Yeah, buddy, it's me. I'm calling an ambulance, just hang on, okay?" And by 'hang on,' he of course means 'don't die.'

Because yeah, it kind of looks like Matt is dying. There's blood _everywhere_ , and his breathing doesn't sound so good. Kind of tight, fast, and ragged. Foggy's gaze sweeps his body quickly. There are deep gashes all over - a few especially notable ones on his chest and stomach - and the swelling over his left cheekbone says _fracture_ to Foggy's completely untrained eye.

Matt manages to groan, "No," clear enough to be understood, and starts doing the incredibly stupid thing of trying to push himself upright.

"No, no, no, no, don't do that," Foggy says as he punches 911 into his touchscreen keypad again. He puts his other hand on what appears to be an uninjured part of Matt's chest and tries to push him back down into the floor. "You could have broken ribs or something and I don't think you're supposed - "

His words are cut off as Matt lunges forward, knocking the phone out of his hand. The movement has Foggy scrambling and Matt writhing.

Foggy grabs his phone from where it's skittered away. "The hell are you doing? We need an ambulance!"

"No," Matt growls, in a voice that's not his. "No hospitals, Foggy." The effort of stringing words together makes him melt back into the floor again, each breath an ugly, gravelly groan. Actually, one or two of them almost sounds like a sob. Oh, God.

"Are you insane? Actually, clinically, insane?" Foggy demands, but his finger is hesitating over the call button anyway. He kneels beside Matt again, peeling black fabric away from hot, bloody skin. "Matt, we need to go to the hospital. This is not optional! You cannot opt out!"

"Can't," Matt coughs. "I… I'm… th-they'll…"

"They'll what, Matthew? Save your life? Yeah, that's the point, thanks." He presses the button.

With a sound between a groan and a growl, Matt lurches halfway upward again and takes another swing, this time just barely missing Foggy's face and only because Foggy has the good sense to move out of the way. "No," Matt says again, falling onto his side on the floor. The mask has slipped up off his head and lies discarded beside his wild, blood-slimed hair. "Not… safe… for me."

"Yeah, I know, you're Hell's Kitchen's Most Wanted, but what the fuck am I supposed to do, here, huh?" He can't help himself. But he's killed the call before it connected, anyway, and he's not even sure why.

Matt's eyes roll back a little. "C-Claire," he chokes out.

" _What_?" Foggy kind of wants to strangle him for being so vague, but that would be counterproductive to the whole saving-his-life effort going on here. Or not going on, as it were.

"C-Call…" He hyperventilates a little, holds his breath, and tries again, pushing the words out past his teeth: "Phone… table... "

A thousand nasty things spring to mind for Foggy to say, but he settles on a wordless snarl of frustration instead and stands up, crossing the loft in a few swift strides to where the phone is sitting on the table. He cycles through the contacts list, ignoring the tinny voice that reads the menus aloud as he goes. _Claire._ That's all it says. No last name, no other details. Just _Claire_ and a phone number. He pushes _dial_ and hastily walks back over to Matt. "It's ringing. Who am I calling, anyway?"

But Matt doesn't answer. His eyes are closed and his head has lolled to the side, his breathing still rapid and audible but regular. Foggy kneels and peeks at some of the wounds. So much blood. Unsure of what else he can do, he presses the phone between his ear and his shoulder and starts tearing strips off Matt's shirt to staunch the bleeding with.

" _Hello?"_ Claire's voice is a strong, musical alto, if slightly breathless.

"Um," Foggy replies ineloquently. "This is, uh - I'm - "

" _Who is this?"_

"Matt's been hurt!" blurts Foggy, before he can stop himself. "I'm sorry - I'm just - he's hurt and it's bad and he told me to call you, I can't take him to a hospital, and he said - "

" _Okay, okay, okay!"_ Claire stops him there. She lets out a long breath that just sounds like a crackle of static through the phone. She says something under her breath in Spanish. Then: _"Tell me what's going on. Where are you? What happened?"_

"I don't know. He's all… cut up, like he's been through a blender or something." That's stupid, Foggy knows, but it's an _awful lot_ of blood. This is no time to deflect with humour however - not even dark humour. He recovers quickly. "Not literally. He's unconscious, also."

" _Where are you?"_

"His."

" _Are you safe?"_

"Huh? Um - "

" _Is it safe there? Is whoever hurt Matt gone?"_ Claire sounds impossibly patient. Something crinkles and rustles a lot in the background.

"Yeah," Foggy says, glad to be able to answer one question with confidence, at least. "Yeah, it's safe here."

Claire blows out another static sound. _"Okay. I'm just grabbing some things and I can be there in twenty minutes. Don't hang up. Do you know any first aid?"_

Foggy wants to cry with relief, but he doesn't. "A little. Not much. Not enough."

" _First things first - ABCs. Airway, breathing, circulation. Make sure nothing is obstructing his airway, make sure he's breathing, make sure you can find his pulse. To do that, you're going to put two fingers in the hollow under his jaw, between his trachea and the muscle on the side of his neck."_

Check, check, and check. "Okay. Yes. ABCs, got it."

" _Breathing?"_

"Yeah. Yes. But, um, it sounds bad."

" _Bad how? Whistling? Wet?"_

"No, neither of those, just sort of - fast, ragged?" Foggy wonders who the hell he's talking to, but he's also relieved that she sounds confident and in control - two things Foggy does not feel right now. He'll take it.

" _Fast and ragged is fine. Long as he's breathing. Pulse?"_

"Yeah."

More rustling in the background, and the jingle of keys. _"Count."_

Foggy presses two fingers into the hollow of Matt's neck and counts, ignoring the cold clamminess of his skin, because that can only be really, really bad. Skin isn't supposed to be cold. In his head, his counting sounds something like onetwothreefourfivesixseven because Matt's pulse is really, really fast. And that can only be really, really bad, too. Right? Probably. Yeah. Shit…

" _Out loud,"_ Claire encourages.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…"

After fifteen seconds, Claire stops him. _"Okay. Good. Good."_ She sounds relieved. _"What's your name?"_

The question surprises him and he forgets for a minute. Then he remembers. Foggy Nelson, avocado at law. "F-Foggy."

" _Foggy? Foggy. You said he was bleeding - where is he bleeding from? What kind of a wound?"_

"Uh. Wound _ssss_. Like, many, all over. Knife wounds, at a guess?" Foggy explores.

Matt groans.

" _Is he conscious?"_ Claire must have heard.

Foggy looks at Matt's face and Matt's eyes are still closed. "No, he's not."

" _You need to put pressure on the wounds."_

"Lady, there are like a dozen of them and I only have two hands!" He puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the floor nearby, going back to ripping Matthew's shirt to bits to use for plugging up knife wounds.

" _Find the worst one."_

That's the one in his side, easily. It's longer and deeper than the others, angry and gaping and bleeding much more freely. He presses the wad of fabric into it, which causes Matt to make another sound that he doesn't like, one that makes his own eyes water sympathetically.

" _You need to push a lot harder than you think,"_ Claire instructs. Car horns sound from her end of the line. She must be driving.

"That'll hurt," Foggy observes, gulping.

" _Yeah, it will, but it's better than dying. He'll thank you for it later."_

Sorrow and dread twist Foggy's expression and he takes a deep, cleansing breath, blowing it out through his lips like he always sees in movies when female characters are giving birth. Hee hee hoo and all that. He sees why, now. It's kind of centering. He drives a little more of his weight into the wound.

Beneath his hands, Matt thrashes, a wretched awful cry getting tangled up in his throat as his eyes fly open again. His back arches, fighting against the pressure on his side.

"Shh," Foggy soothes, glad Matt can't see his face. He's grimacing in sympathy with his friend, he can't help it, and so he's glad, not for the first time, for Matt's blindness. He can feel the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes, but he tells himself it's sweat. "S'okay, buddy, s'okay. You're gonna be okay." He has no idea if he's lying or not.

Matt is making this awful choking sound now, somewhere between a gag and a sob, and he's grasping with weak hands at one of Foggy's wrists.

"He's conscious," Foggy updates Claire. "ETA?"

" _Ten minutes, ish. Just keep breathing, you're doing good."_

"I don't think he can hear you, Claire," Foggy says, watching as blood soaks through the fabric between his fingers.

" _I was talking to you, Foggy."_

"Oh." Yeah, breathing is good advice, Foggy decides. He sucks some air through his teeth.

Matt is losing the battle again, his struggles weakening, his moans turning to vague little near-whimpers.

Foggy groans himself, because blood is seeping through his fingers and it's warm and wet and feels a lot thicker than he thought it would, and he _really_ doesn't love that Matt is falling asleep again. "Talk to me, Murdock," he begs through his gritted jaw.

"...F-Foggy…"

"I'm here. Say something."

Uselessly, Matthew's eyes roll toward the sound of his voice, staring off over his right shoulder somewhere. Well, not really anywhere. Nowhere. "S-sorry," Matt grunts. Ah, that good old Catholic self-flagellation. I'm the one bleeding on the floor, but I'm still sorry you have to deal with it.

Foggy's mouth becomes a grim line. "Yeah, you better be."

Silence falls, punctuated in short spurts by the street sounds through the phone, and Matt's barely-stifled groans. His bootheels grind into the fractured floorboards as his legs pedal pointlessly.

" _Keep him talking,"_ Claire urges.

"Claire?" Matt asks breathlessly.

"I phoned her, like you said." Foggy resists the urge to call his friend some colourful names.

"This isn't… I didn't mean to… ah… _ah..._ " His face contorts in a fresh wave of agony.

"I know, I know. And once I'm sure you're not gonna die, we're going to have a big fight about that, but I need to make sure you're gonna live before I kill you."

Matt makes a sound that wants to be a chuckle, but it's a gasp and a choke and Matt's eyes roll back again, the lids fluttering closed, all the muscles of his chest and neck straining until they can't anymore. The taut lines melt and Matt's head lolls. His lips are moving but the words have no sound.

"No, Matt, no." Foggy taps his face, but Matt's eyelids only twitch in response. "Matthew. Agh, he's out again!"

" _Okay. Still breathing?"_

"Yes!"

" _I'm almost there. Sit tight."_

It takes hours for Claire to arrive. It's half a day between the sound of her car door closing and her footsteps walking into the loft. Wait, no… no, that's not right. Minutes, not hours. Just minutes. The timer on the call says twenty-two minutes fifteen seconds when Claire disconnects. Foggy's arms ache from pushing down on squirming Matt. Previously squirming Matt, to be more accurate - he's still now. Scary still. Foggy does the ABC thing as Claire turns on lights and pulls stuff out of a bag she sets on the floor. Airway, breathing, circulation. He can hear his breathing and see the pulse flickering in his throat, so that's… good, he supposes.

When the woman called Claire - hot, very hot, Foggy notices even under the current circumstances - kneels beside him and places a hand on his shoulder, he sees that she has a stethoscope hanging around her neck and purple nitrile gloves on. "Are you a doctor or something?" he asks hopefully, his voice rough.

"Or something," is the cryptic answer Claire gives, but it's good enough for now, it has to be.

Awkwardly, the two of them manoeuvre Matt to the sofa, and Foggy is _incredibly_ thankful that he's unconscious for that part, because there's only so much gentleness to half-dragging a person across a room.

Claire cuts Matt's clothes off him and it's only then that Foggy takes in the true scope of his injuries. The sight takes his breath away. "Is… is he… is…" he chokes, for once at a loss for words.

"He's gonna be fine," Claire murmurs, examining the wounds. "Most of the bleeding has stopped already. You did a good job with this, Foggy. Really good." She grabs a plastic bag of something off the floor and tears it open. "Needs some stitches. A lot of 'em. But… I think he's gonna be okay."

It's only now that Foggy realises his own breath has been coming too quickly, his heart hammering an electronic dance rhythm against his chest. He lifts his hands to run them back through his hair, but stops himself, remembering they're coated in Matt's blood. It's dry now, making his skin feel tight and weird. "Who… who are you?" he asks again, watching her work. She's quick but methodical, her fingers moving with practised precision as she threads stitch after stitch through Matt's torn flesh.

"I'm a nurse," she says, her concentration taken up by the task of putting Matt back together. Foggy wants to say something about how nurses don't usually do stitches, but he bites it back. He's just thankful that _this_ nurse does them.

Matt stirs, Claire shushes, and Foggy tenses; only one breathless word passes Matt's bloodied lips.

"Foggy…"


	2. In Haec Verba

Chapter 2: In Haec Verba

Sometime post-season-1. In which Matt is sick and Foggy helps out.

* * *

The line just keeps ringing. Just like it did the last time he called, and the time before that. This time he leaves a voicemail. "Hey, Matt. It's Foggy. Again. Just wondering where you are..." He steps into the conference room and lowers his voice so that Karen can't hear. "I gotta be honest, buddy, ever since this whole _you-know-what_ business, I can't help wondering if you are _dead in an alley_ _somewhere_ when you don't pick up, so… An answer would be appreciated."

Their relationship is still shaky. He'd be lying to deny it. Matt being the Mask comes with a whole set of brand spankin' new trust issues, and Foggy finds himself annoyed by the mystery of it all, and on edge from constantly lying to Karen. Oh, where did Matt get that split lip? Oh, why is Matt so late for work? Oh, where is Matt tonight that he can't join us for drinks? It's getting old fast.

So yeah, Foggy is still a little, tiny, itty bitty bit angry.

He searches the Internet for Daredevil sightings. Nothing comes up. Is that better or worse? Foggy thinks back. Matt was at work yesterday. Everything seemed fine, but everything always does with Matt. Broken bones, fifteen stitches in his shoulder, massive city-wide explosions - everything's fine. For all he knows, Matt could have fallen off a fire escape the night before, was nursing a broken rib, and now has said rib through his lung and is dead on his apartment floor.

Okay, calm the fuck down. He probably just unplugged his alarm clock by accident. Clumsy sonuva-

"Morning, Matt!" Karen's voice lilts from the reception area. "Coffee?"

Relief washes over Foggy. _See?_ he thinks. _You were just being paranoid. Rib through a lung! Pfft!_ He steps out of the conference room in time to see Matt leaning his cane up against its usual corner. He must have nodded to Karen's offer, because she's breezed past him and is preparing his cup - white, no sugar - while Matt sheds his coat. Foggy watches suspiciously as Matt stiffly turns. He gives his crooked Murdock smile. "Morning, Foggy."

"You're late," Foggy points out, feigning nonchalance. "That's kinda weird."

Matt shrugs, but Foggy isn't fooled. He follows Matt as the man heads for his office, knuckles brushing the wall to guide himself. "I turned off my alarm by accident," Matt explains, accepting the coffee cup Karen brings him.

Foggy's eyes narrow. He shuts the door behind Karen's departure and turns to fix his friend with a stern look. "I don't have super senses, but even I can tell when you're lying badly. You turned off your alarm _and_ didn't hear your phone ringing four different times this morning?"

"Yeah." Matt nods, setting his coffee cup down without trying it. "When is our meeting with the Andersens? Eleven, right?"

"Remember that talk we had about trust, where you're supposed to tell me stuff and not keep secrets from me anymore?"

Matt nods again, leveling his usual placid expression in Foggy's direction. He has his glasses on, but Foggy can see him blinking behind the dark lenses.

"Yeah, well, you're breaching our new contract."

"Objection - there was no contract."

"Don't deflect with humour, Matt." Foggy sits down across from his desk. "You're all sweaty and rumpled and you let Karen make you coffee - so I _know_ you're lying. Where were you this morning? _Were you out Daredeviling all night?_ "

"Keep your voice down."

"It is down! Karen doesn't have super senses!" Foggy leans back, twisting to look at their friend through Matt's office window. "She's wearing headphones, anyway!" He turns back to Matt. "Talk to me, man, because you're kinda looking like crap on a cracker right now, and I don't want to find you facedown at lunchtime because you have a pathological problem accepting help from other people!"

At the end of Foggy's tirade, Matt sighs, one hand on his desk and the other in his lap. He seems to be considering something, eyes downcast behind his dark glasses in a perfect mimicry of sight. "This isn't that, Foggy." He lifts his face, no doubt approximating Foggy's general position based on his scent and the trajectory of his voice. "I didn't fall six storeys into a dumpster and then not tell you. It's nothing like that."

"Then what is it?"

Matt stands to grab his briefcase and starts to say something, but then he stumbles, barely catching himself on the edge of his desk.

Foggy takes two swift steps forward and catches him under the arm. Immediately, he gets a clearer picture of what's wrong. "Christ, Matt, you're burning up."

"Just a cold…" He sags. Disengaging himself, he sits back down.

"You're going home." Foggy starts packing up his partner's briefcase.

"I wanted to be there for the meeting with the Andersens."

Foggy nods with exaggerated pretend sympathy. "Bummer."

"No, seriously, Foggy - if the kid is lying about where he was, I'm the only one who can find that out for certain."

"We talked about this, too, Matt! You can't just go listening to people's heartbeats in secret, it's creepy. We covered this. Clearly your fever is addling your brain." Foggy snaps the briefcase shut and steps back over to Matt's side, plucking at the seam of his sleeve to signal him to stand up. "Let's go."

"Foggy."

"No! You're not going to get other people sick by being irresponsible!" He knows that appealing to Matt's sense of duty to others is the only way to convince him. And like a good Catholic, Matt takes the ugly guilt-ridden bait and stands up.

Foggy guides Matt out of the office, telling Karen on their way, "Reschedule the meeting with the Andersens for Friday afternoon."

Matt tenses. "Foggy - "

Foggy's having none of it. "No arguments!"

Poor Karen doesn't even get the chance to ask what's going on before they're both out the door.

* * *

By the time they get back to Matt's place, Foggy is wrestling with the idea of calling Claire. Which is to say, Matt looks like he's in bad shape - and since Matt likes to hide his discomfort from other people, Foggy is left to assume that what he's seeing is just what's leaking through his friend's iron-clad defences; so in other words, he's probably a lot sicker than he looks. Which is already somewhere near deathly on a scale of one to not breathing. It could be worth it to have Claire check and make sure that he's not actually dying. Just for peace of mind.

Matt sets his briefcase and cane down on the table, shivering slightly. Glasses come off next, and he rubs the indentations from the bridge of his nose.

Sighing, Foggy goes to Matt's room and grabs him some sweats. "Clothes," he says, holding them out.

Matt's fingers close around the soft material. "Thanks. I can take care of myself, Foggy."

"Right! That's why you almost collapsed at work."

As he passes him on his way to the bedroom, Matt sighs noisily. "I did not almost collapse. I was nowhere near collapse. I just wanted to be present for the Andersen meeting. I would have gone home afterward." The door shuts behind him and Foggy can hear the sound of fabric shifting, necktie being pulled off.

"I'll let you know when I believe you," Foggy replies, raising his voice so that Matt can hear him through the door, before remembering that that's totally unnecessary. Super senses. Right.

The door opens again and Matt stands framed in it, one hand on the doorjamb for support. "What's gotten into you lately?"

"Your pathological problem with accepting help." Foggy is disproportionately proud of having invented that phrase. "Or being seen at a weakness. Or both."

Matt gives a long-suffering sigh and makes his way to the couch. "That's not… I don't have a pathological problem with accepting help."

"Like hell you don't!"

"Volume, Foggy." Matt winces.

Foggy whispers, "Like hell you don't." He sits across from his friend. Matt's eyes follow him, seeing but not seeing, fixed on some spot near his head but never quite making eye contact. "Exhibit A. The night I discovered it was _you_ in the mask, bleeding to death, you were planning on calling me?"

"No."

"No. So you would rather have died on your living room floor than call me and ask for help. Exhibit B. A month ago when you took a dive off the side of a building and thought it was just a twisted ankle. Were you planning on calling any of us then?"

"Foggy, you know why - "

"No. Exhibit C - "

"Okay, I get it." Matthew gives a gusty sigh, his face colourless. "Okay. You're right, I have a problem asking for help. But it isn't - _pathological_ \- I just… I don't want to drag you into anything."

Foggy doesn't waste any time looking affronted, he knows Matt can't see it. "I'm in it, man," he says, stretching his arms out to the sides. "I'm in it of my own volition, so just… y'know, stop. Get over it." He gets to his feet. "Alright. I need to go do damage control with the Andersens. I'll come over when I'm done. You okay here? Have everything you need?"

Matt nods. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"If you need anything, _call me_." Foggy places extra emphasis on the last two words. "Don't let me come back here and find you dying of Ebola or something."

The laugh that tumbles from Matt's lips is a relief from his stubborn stoicism. "Okay, Foggy. Okay."

* * *

The door closing behind Foggy is deafening to Matt. There's never any quiet, not for him, but right now it's exacerbated by the violent maelstrom of pain in his head.

Foggy's right. He has a problem asking for help. He doesn't want to be anybody's burden. He doesn't want to be treated with kid gloves. He hates that. _Hates_ it.

But there's a chance he overcompensates. He knows that, but he doesn't know how to stop. He needs to stop, or Foggy's going to start taking it personally. No, correction - he already has. He's just too damn _nice_ to bring it up most of the time.

Quiet fills the apartment and Matt lets himself fall back against the couch cushions. He can hear the neighbours talking downstairs, the sirens from six blocks over, the dog whining from three streets down. He turns on the TV, loads up Netflix, and selects the first movie he finds with descriptive narration. He can't have quiet, but he can be distracted, lulled into calm. The storm in his head keeps pounding and pounding, the pressure threatening to split his skull - but somehow, over time, he falls asleep.

When he wakes up, he knows that several hours have passed, even though he can't see the afternoon sunlight slotting through the windows. He feels hot and cold by turns, and his skull is still split open at the seams. He pushes himself upright, and the walls and floor trade places. He presses a hand to the side of his head to steady himself, but his memory-map of the apartment is all wrong now and he stumbles on his way to the bathroom, nearly tripping over the coffee table and just managing to catch himself on the doorfame of his washroom. Cane, should have grabbed the cane. His stomach heaves as his knees hit the tile. His chin grazes the porcelain of the toilet bowl half a second before his insides spill out of his mouth, and when he's empty and boneless, he falls back against the side of the tub, gasping for breath and grimacing at the acid in his mouth. Vaguely, he wonders if he's going to be okay since all his internal organs have been flushed down the toilet, but there's no time to ponder on it. His senses are shutting down again. Everything oscillates for a minute between too loud and not loud enough before it settles.

Relative quiet, and cool blankness again. Matt falls asleep on the bathroom floor.

The next time he wakes, it's to voices. Familiar, warm, and much too loud. He winces at the noise and someone says, "Shh." The world is not on fire. It's blank, dark. There's a rushing sound in his ears and his clothes feel scratchy and uncomfortable, despite that his sweats are lined with soft, brushed fleece. Someone's hands are on his face, his shoulders, pulling him upright.

"Foggy…"

The hands are connected to a voice, which says, "Yep. I'll forgive you this time because you left your phone by the couch."

Matt doesn't understand. Forgive him for what? Apologising is the first thing that comes to mind. Mea culpa. Oops. "Sorry," he mumbles, or tries to.

"Oh, my God," says a second voice as Matt allows himself to be led out of the bathroom. The voice is female, also familiar. Karen. "Should he… go to the hospital?"

The very thought makes Matt cringe - prickly sheets, oppressive noise, the stinging taste of antiseptic. Drugs that will either amplify his senses to unbearable heights, or dull them to terrifying uselessness. "No," he moans. "No."

Beside him, Foggy gives a shake of the head that Matt can feel, and covers for him as always. "Nah. Don't think we're at brain damage levels of fever yet."

Matt tries to say something to Foggy, but it doesn't come out intelligibly, even to him, and he soon feels fingers on his jaw, turning his head in the other direction.

"Vomit breath, dude," Foggy grates.

"Sorry."

"S'okay."

They're a tangle of shuffling feet and clumsy limbs and Matt loses track of where they are. It comes as a shock to him, not being able to figure out where he is in his own apartment. That's never happened before. He always has a clear map of the place in his head, and his mental compass is never wrong, not in here. Except for right now. Right now he's lost in the woods, in the dark. He feels himself shiver.

His legs hit the edge of the bed and then Foggy's hands move, guiding him down onto it, pushing his shoulders, tugging and prodding him to move. Matt tries to cooperate.

"So not helping," Foggy grunts.

Oh. "Sorry," Matt says again. His head hits the pillow a split second before he senses Karen in the room. Almond-mint shampoo, her long hair whispering over her shirt as she moves. Something cool and damp alights on his forehead and he resists the urge to moan with pleasure as it etches out a swath of relief along his fevered skin.

He falls asleep in the middle of whatever Foggy is saying to him. Instructions. Something. A sigh. Sleep.

Half a second later, he opens his eyes, and the room feels different. Empty, quiet. The air has changed somehow. It is no longer vibrating with the breath and movement of two other people. He's alone, lying on his back in the middle of his bed. No, it's been more than half a second. It's been hours. Several. The storm in his skull has abated, but as he lifts a hand to touch his face, he realises that the pain isn't gone, it's just relocated to his joints. The large muscles of his back and shoulders ache deeply. He breathes through his nose, willing his body to move. Stick's voice floats to him from a buried memory, telling him to suck it up, and even though he tells the voice to fuck off, somehow it's motivated him. He drags his right arm up, out, down. His fingers fumble for the button on his clock. "Eight-oh-seven pee-em," it says in a tinny voice, the inflection on all the wrong syllables. He presses it again for confirmation. Eight oh seven. He doesn't know what day it is. He pulls his arm back into his nest of blankets and groans from the effort of it.

Movement from the living room catches his attention and he realises he can smell food. Thai. Mild. Coconut rice.

The process of sitting up has him close to tears, but he feels like there is something he's supposed to be doing. His joints are screaming. A cough claws its way out of his throat, and once it's begun, it won't stop.

When the spasm relinquishes its grasp on his lungs after what seems like hours, Matt's throat is raw. Foggy's hand is on his then, and it's jarring to realise he never even heard him come into the room. The other man is lifting his hand, fitting it around something cool and smooth. Curved. Glass. Water. He's not sure what it's for. Washing something, maybe.

"Drink," Foggy explains. Of its own accord, the glass floats toward his lips, the smooth edge like ice against them. The water traces a frigid path down his throat, and it calms the scratching sensation that made him cough.

Knuckles brush his forehead; Foggy is pressing the back of a hand to his face. The whine from his joints says Matt must have jumped from the contact.

"Sorry," mutters Foggy, above and in front of him. "You're really, really hot though, man."

Matt tweaks the corner of his mouth upward. It takes most of his concentration. "Thanks, but I don't swing that way."

"Hilarious."

He lifts his eyes to an approximation of where Foggy's face ought to be. His mind's eye tries to build the features of his face based off a touch memory from five years ago, but it's a lot of effort right now and it's quickly abandoned. He envisions Foggy as an avocado instead. An avocado with long hair. He wonders if he has an accurate idea of what an avocado looks like. It's been so long since he's seen one.

"Seen what?" Foggy asks. The mattress sinks slightly as he sits beside Matt.

"An avocado," Matt supplies, still obediently sipping water.

"Slow down."

Matt isn't sure what he is doing that is too fast, so he stops everything. He even holds his breath for a second, but then he feels rather dizzy and he thinks that Foggy couldn't have meant that.

He hates how muddled up he feels right now. Even as each ridiculous thought crosses his mind, he knows they're stupid. Foggy isn't an avocado. Glass isn't ice. _Boohoo,_ Stick taunts in his brain. He's curled up in the back of his skull, meditating. _Poor Matty can't think._ No world on fire, just blank and dark. Neverending dark. No, not even dark. He can't even see dark, it's just… nothing. A big fat blind spot, like when you're about to get a migraine, or when you've looked at the sun too long. Just nothing.

Something agitates his ear and Matt freezes. Foggy's breath fans over his face - coffee, peanut sauce, coconut rice again - "Relax." Something slides into his ear canal. Tympanic thermometer. He doesn't remember Foggy getting up to get it. He feels like he's underwater.

The thermometer beeps, leaves his ear, and then speaks in a flat, mechanical voice: "One-hundred-two-point-zero-degrees-Fahrenheit."

Foggy pulls a face. Or he probably does, Matt thinks. Trying to guess at all of his nonverbal cues is exhausting now, however, so he stops.

"That sucks," his friend says beside him. "Maybe you should… take something for it." His hesitation is because he knows Matt won't. He never does. Nothing that could dull his senses, or worse - amplify them.

Matt tips himself sideways so that he falls onto his pillow once more, pulling his legs up. His shins brush against Foggy's hip. His friend's heartbeat echoes in his ears and he latches onto it in the not-dark-darkness, timing his breath to every fifth _thump_. "Sleep," he mumbles into the pillow.

Foggy's hand appears on his arm, disappears just as quickly. Receding footsteps. He falls asleep to the sound of Foggy's heartbeat and the monotone of the evening news.

The third time he wakes, it's to a sensation of total suffocation. This should panic him, but it doesn't, as if it's happening to someone else. Maybe it is. Foggy's hand feels cool on the back of his neck and suddenly he re-enters his own body with a slam. He coughs, sucks a ragged breath around the taste of vomit in his throat, and realises he's hanging over the side of the bed, half supported by his friend, the wastepaper bin sitting on the floor beneath. He knows because he can hear the crinkle of the bag that lines it. Good. Easy cleanup. He hopes he didn't miss when he puked. He chokes and wonders if this is what drowning feels like.

"Don't fight it, man," Foggy advises. "Just breathe."

That seems important. Breathing. Is it? It must be. Foggy's smart, even if he pretends not to be sometimes. His advice is to be trusted. Always full of good ideas, that one. Good old Foggy.

"Hunh." The noise is coming from Matt. He bites it back and shoves himself upright, setting the room to spinning on the y-axis. He holds his head as though this will steady his world. Cold hits his lips and he realises through the rushing sound in his ears that Foggy is trying to get him to drink. Another good idea. Matthew peels his hands away from his temples and holds the glass, but his fingers layer over Foggy's on one side and the other man doesn't let go. Just as well - Matt's grasp doesn't feel too firm or steady. The glass disappears and he feels Foggy's hand on his leg, just below the knee. He's tangled up in blankets and Foggy is sitting on top of the edge of them, effectively pinning him beneath the fabric.

"What time is it?" Matt asks over the rushing water sound. His voice is so hoarse it sounds like Daredevil's growl. He scans the room. Still no world on fire. It's smouldering a little now, though, and he doesn't feel quite as blind.

"About one."

Alarm lances through Matt's chest. "In the afternoon?"

"Nah, man, the middle of the night."

"Why are you still here?"

Foggy's laughter comes in a cascading scale of tenor notes. "Why do you think?"

Matt scowls, or he thinks he does. He's never seen himself do it, not his adult self. He hopes it's effective. "I can take care of myself."

"So you said, like, a dozen times. But it doesn't hurt to have some backup so you don't, say, destroy your white carpet with vomit."

Is his carpet white? "Were you asleep?"

"Not quite." Foggy's heart rhythm stays normal, neutral. He's telling the truth. The mattress springs up and Matt's legs are suddenly freer, signalling Foggy's departure from the bed. The wastepaper bin is swept away, the bag crinkling as it's tied off.

Matt wrinkles his nose. "You don't have to do that, I can - "

"Can't hear you!" Foggy calls on his way out of the room. "Go back to sleep, Murdock."

He does. Mainly because he's envisioning Foggy as an avocado spinning out of the room, and he knows that can't be right.

* * *

Foggy's phone chimes with a text message alert as he returns from putting the bin bag down the rubbish chute. It's five minutes to one in the morning, but he knows it's Karen. They've been chatting on and off throughout the evening. He washes his hands and unlocks his phone.

 _ **New Message: Karen Page 12.56am**_

 _ **How's it going?**_

Foggy wonders how to answer that. Matt's ridiculous with fever. Delirious, maybe, but he's always been sensitive to fevers. He knows now that it's probably from his spidey senses overreacting as they do to everything. He rolls his shoulder to stretch it and types out:

 _ **Not bad. Matt just puked on me. Pretty sure I win Best Friend of the Year.**_

The response comes quickly.

 _ **New Message: Karen Page 12.56am**_

 _ **He puked on you?**_

 _ **New Message: Karen Page 12.57am**_

 _ **You decided to stay?**_

Rounding the couch, Foggy takes a sip of the lukewarm beer sitting on the coffee table and drops himself down before replying.

 _ **Well, not ON me, on me. Near me. Whatever, it counts. Yeah, I stayed. I couldn't leave with him going on about avocados, he's liable to walk off the roof in confusion or something.**_

He wonders if that sounds too bad. Indeed it must, because Karen's next message asks if he's delirious and whether that means they should do something (like put him in a cab directly to Metro General), but Foggy shakes his head to himself. He tells her that no, Matthew always gets stupid when he has a fever, it's kinda his thing. He hopes it will pass for believable. It must, because Karen doesn't push the issue. A few minutes pass and he thinks the conversation is over, when his phone chimes again.

 _ **New Message: Karen Page 1.11am**_

 _ **Avocados?**_

Foggy glances through the open bedroom door, watches Matt roll over and moan softly in his sleep. He types:

 _ **Long story. Ask him sometime.**_

Karen promises that she will, and the two of them say goodnight. Foggy stares blearily at the television, watching replays of the news. There won't be any Daredevil sightings tonight. And if there are, they'll be fake or mistaken. He's the only one in the city who knows that, and it feels like a precious secret, a small conspiracy with himself.

He falls asleep to a replay of _Last Week Tonight_ , the room awash in the billboard's white glow.

It's four when something jars him awake. He blinks his eyes open, nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Matt standing over him, his blind stare going right past him. "Matty?" he croaks, confused, disorientated. He clears his throat. "What's up?" The question is too casual, he realises, because Matt looks gravely distressed in the artificial light pouring through the window.

"We need to leave." Matt's voice is strained, thin. He finds Foggy's arm, peels him from where he's slouching against the back of the couch, and his touch is far too warm through Foggy's crumpled day shirt.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What?" Foggy pushes himself to his feet, catching Matt's arm before he can walk away. "Leave? Where? Why?"

"They know. They know who I am, they're coming. Get your coat." He turns, bumps the coffee table, corrects his course toward the door. Stops, because Foggy has a firm hold on him.

"It's not real, Matt," Foggy says, and he is pretty sure it's true. He shakes the cobwebs from the inside of his skull. He's never been a quick riser, always sluggish and slow in the morning. If this can even be called morning. Still too early for that, by Foggy's standards. He sighs. "It's not real."

Matt turns to face him, tilting his head. Foggy thinks he must be listening to his heartbeat. The idea is slightly less unnerving each time he has it, and the part of him that wants to stay angry is irritated at how mundane it's becoming.

"Not… Not real…?" Matt sounds confused. That's an understatement. Matt sounds… undone. Un-Matt.

"Yeah, dude," Foggy goes on. "You're sick. Fever's making your brain play tricks on you. Let's get you back to bed."

But unfortunately, Matthew isn't convinced. He wrestles his arm out of Foggy's grasp and takes a few steps away from him, turning to face him in the expanse of the loft's living area. "No, I'm not, Foggy. I know what I saw."

"Are you sure? Because last I checked, you're blind as a bat."

"You know what I meant."

He does, it's true. He also knows that bats aren't blind - they've covered this before - but _that's not the point_. The point is that Matt is halfway across the flat, getting on his coat and shoes and grabbing his cane, and if Foggy doesn't stop him, he's going to go outside and walk into traffic or something. "Matt." Foggy runs a hand back through his shaggy hair and crosses the space in a few long strides, reaching out and grabbing Matt by the arm again, spinning him around with a firm but gentle grip. "Matt! Listen to me. This isn't real, it's a dream. You're dreaming. Maybe hallucinating. I don't know the technical term."

Lucidity seems to return for a moment and Matt's expression of determination is rapidly replaced by one of confusion. "Not real?" he parrots again.

"Nope. Please go back to bed, man. Please."

Matt lifts a hand, pressing it to the side of his head. "I don't…" He sways.

Foggy barely reacts in time when Matt pitches forward. The unexpected armful of fevered lawyer throws him off balance and he lists sideways against the wall, trying to use it to gain some leverage and get them both back onto their feet. After a moment, Matt adds his own strength to the effort - what little of it he has, that is - and somehow they both get upright again, though Matt is leaning heavily on Foggy. "Okay," murmurs Foggy, leaning down to see his friend's face in the semi-dark of the entryway. The other man is pale, sweating. "Just take it easy. We're going back to bed. One foot in front of the other."

He isn't sure how, but Foggy manages to get Matt back to his room. He guides him back into bed, wincing at the moan that exits Matt's lips as he lies back down. "Feel sick again?" Foggy wonders aloud, casting about for the bin.

"No," says Matt, shaking his head a little against the pillow. "Just… Ohh." He spreads a hand over his head.

"You want some ibuprofen or something?"

His voice is muffled by the pillow. "No. Jus' wanna sleep."

Foggy drags the blanket up over his friend and leaves him to it. To be honest, he wants the same. Matt is a terrible patient. Not on purpose, at least. But he is. Foggy drags a blanket and pillow out of the linen closet and camps out on the floor outside Matt's room. Just in case. If a delirious Matt wants to try to run away again, he'll have to trip over Foggy first.

Some three hours later, he's woken by sunlight streaming in through the windows and the sounds of someone making barely-stifled unhappy noises behind him. He opens his eyes, confused for a moment to find himself on the floor of Matt's place. He's lying on his side in a tangle of blankets that smell like cedarwood, and when he hears Matt groan from somewhere nearby, he remembers. He's impressed - they made it to morning without another escape attempt. Foggy sits up and gathers the blankets and pillows off the floor, dumping them in a chair. Matt's awake and there's no need to leave things lying around to trip him up.

"Foggy…?" comes a drowsy voice behind him.

Foggy turns and sees Matt sitting on the edge of his bed, scrubbing a hand down his face. Crossing his arms, Foggy leans in the doorframe of Matt's bedroom. "You with me, Murdock?"

"Is there somewhere else I should be?" Matt replies, and for a moment, Foggy thinks he's still lost in the fever-haze, but then he quickly catches on that Matt was being sarcastic. "What are you doing here, Fog? What time is it?"

He checks his watch. "Early still. Do you seriously not remember last night?"

"A little, not much… ow." He's stretching, cramped joints popping audibly. He peels sticky fleece away from his chest.

"Well, lucky you. How do you feel?"

"Like shit."

"Up to eating?" Foggy turns his back and heads for the kitchen. Behind him, Matt gives a noncommittal noise that he assumes to be an affirmative. It's not a negative, at least. He opens the fridge, leans down to the crisper, grabs something. "Here," he says, returning to Matt and placing the fruit in his hand.

"What's this?" Matt turns it over and over between his hands, running the pads of his fingers over the pocked skin.

"You kept talking about an avocado last night at one point. Maybe you had a craving." Foggy laughs.

Matthew grins feebly. "I thought _you_ were an avocado. Last night."

"Well, I am. The best damn avocado."

Matt laughs, but the movement causes his face to go through two shades of grey to a pale green. Much like an avocado, himself.

* * *

 **a/n**

 **I'm still experimenting with writing using non-visual descriptions. Please R &R and let me know if I made any silly mistakes with the parts from Matt's POV. I received some guidance from someone who is totally blind with no light perception, but there may still be mistakes. All input is appreciated. Thank you. **


	3. Compensatory Damages

Ch 3: Compensatory Damages

University days. In which Foggy becomes intimately acquainted with Matt's apparent clumsiness.

* * *

 **The First Time**

"How did you do this to yourself, Murdock?"

Foggy is sitting across from Matt in their dorm room, their knees knocking together as they face each other on their rickety desk chairs. There's a disused first aid kit open beside them on Foggy's desk, half of its contents expired, the other half on Foggy's lap. The desk lamp is turned on its side, spotlighting the nasty gash on Matt's eyebrow.

"I told you how I did it," Matt replies evenly, holding himself very still. "I slipped on the ice."

"Right. And then you punched it."

Matt flexes his bloody knuckles.

Gingerly, Foggy dabs blood away from his roommate's face, carefully skirting the edge of the wound with the gauze. "So…?"

"Grazed them on something," Matt supplies. "The stairs, maybe. I'm not sure."

Foggy has to give him that. The dude's blind. He couldn't have seen what he whacked with his hand if he tried. On the other hand, though - and mind you, Foggy's no expert - but on the other hand, he knows that when a person falls, they usually throw their arms out to catch themselves. So why are Matt's knuckles banged up and not his palms? "Well, I gotta tell you, buddy, from where I'm sitting, it kinda looks like you've been in a fight."

Matt laughs heartily. "Yeah! You should see the other guy."

"Right," Foggy chuckles. But inwardly, he can't help wondering if somebody jumped Matt or something, and he's too embarrassed to say. He's not sure, he hasn't known the guy that long. But he has his watch and his wallet - you'd have to be a real dick to go and beat up a blind guy for no reason. "Okay," he says, dropping the subject entirely. "This… is gonna hurt." He rips open an alcohol pad, the smell wafting up between them. He hears Matt swallow. "Ready?"

"I don't know if that's necessary."

"You kidding me? You hit your _face_ on the _ground_ outside of the Fine Arts building. There could be all kinds of shit in there. You could end up with chlamydia of the face."

"I don't think that's a thing, Fog - _ouch_!'

"I was trying to distract you," Foggy says sadly. "I did not succeed. Hold still." As quickly and as gently as possible, Foggy swipes the alcohol pad over the wound, ignoring for the most part Matt's hisses of pain. That done, he opens a second pad and does the same for the skinned knuckles. "And… done."

Matt breathes a sigh of relief. He looks slightly green.

Foggy rummages through the first aid supplies arrayed in his lap. "Alright, now for the stitches."

A little more colour drains from Matthew's face. "I don't - "

Foggy almost regrets the joke. Almost. "Dude, I'm kidding! How crazy do you think I am?" He leans forward again, peering at the wound in the light from the overturned lamp. "My esteemed professional opinion is that you don't need stitches, anyway."

"It's not that crazy," says Matt, his eyes locked on a spot over Foggy's shoulder. "I've done it."

"Huh?"

"Before I was blind."

Foggy thinks he probably should have realised that. "Oh. To yourself?" He fishes a couple of butterfly closures out of the pile of first aid stuff.

Matt tenses like he's about to shake his head, but thinks better of it. "Nah, my dad. He was a boxer."

"Really? Surely they had somebody at the... arena thing that could do that for him." He peels the wax paper backing off the closures and carefully applies the first one to the gash bisecting Matt's dark eyebrow. "How old were you?"

"Eight, nine."

"Damn. There's no end in sight to the badassery with you, Murdock!"

* * *

 **The Fourth Time**

"Don't you dare pass out on me."

"I won't."

"I mean it, Matt."

"I'm not."

"Because if you do, I swear - "

"Foggy, it's a sprained ankle, not a compound fracture!"

"Ah, I see you've been paying attention in our Medical Malpractice class." Foggy tightens his arm around Matt's waist. They're standing in the stairwell, working their way up at an agonisingly slow pace. The elevator is conveniently out of service. "Why couldn't you fall down the stairs somewhere with a working elevator?"

Beside him, Matt ratchets himself a little more upright. "Because I wouldn't have been on the stairs if the elevator were working."

Okay, that's a good point. Foggy groans and helps Matt haul himself up another half dozen stairs to the landing.

"Stop," Matt pants. "Stop, stop, stop." He frees himself from his friend's grasp and sits on the landing.

"We're almost there," Foggy points out. "Like six more stairs."

"And a hallway."

"And a hallway," Foggy concedes. Their room is at the end of the hall. A rather long hall, he supposes, when you're walking on a twisted ankle. Sighing, Foggy drops down next to his friend on the top stair. "You need a guide dog or something. A guide dog wouldn't let you fall down the stairs."

Matt gives a strained laugh. "I don't need a dog."

"You fell down the stairs."

"Fair point." Matt leans back on his hands and takes a few steadying breaths. "But I don't think they'd let me have a dog in the dorms."

Foggy shrugs. "They might. Reasonable accommodations and all that."

"Braille textbooks are a reasonable accommodation, not dogs. I don't think dogs qualify."

"Then we'd sue 'em." Leaning over, Foggy tugs Matt's trouser leg up to get another quick look at his ankle. Swollen, but not any worse than it was at the bottom of the stairs. There's some bruising. Foggy doesn't think it's broken, though. He lets the fabric fall back down again. "You can sue for anything these days. We could sue for the elevator being out of service and forcing a disabled man to climb the stairs."

Matt laughs again. "That'd be embarrassing. I'd have to admit I fell."

"True." He claps once. "Okay. Ready?"

"Wait."

"No, no more wait. The sooner we get back, the sooner you can have some ice and ibuprofen, won't that be nice? Up and at 'em." Without waiting for an answer, Foggy gets to his feet and helps Matt up too, throwing one arm around his waist again and using the other to drag Matt's arm across his shoulders. Matt clings to him slightly as they steady themselves on the landing. "Okay, bro, six more stairs and a hallway."

* * *

 **The ? Time**

Matt has a black eye. A true bar brawl shiner, like Foggy's never seen before. Only this time, he's not really buying the _I bumped into a door_ explanation.

"Tell me again," he demands, his voice betraying some of his irritation as he hands his roommate a bag of frozen peas. The peas are probably like a million years old, but Foggy figures Matt isn't eating them, he's just using them as a cold pack, so they're okay for that.

Matt groans as he accepts the bag. "I already told you three times," he moans. He sits back on his bed, against the wall, sighing as he presses the frozen peas against his face.

"Yeah, you did, and I still don't get it. The laws of physics don't work like that." Foggy is trying to keep his voice light, but he doesn't think he's succeeding. Indeed, Matt's frown confirms that he isn't.

"I walked into an open door after Legal Ethics. Someone was coming through and didn't see me before she opened the door into me."

"Didn't you have your cane?"

"Yes. Like I said before. I swept it to the left, the door opened, by the time my cane found the door, I had already walked into it. Are we finished, Counselor? We have a test tomorrow."

"Tell me why it looks like somebody punched you," Foggy spills out. He grits his teeth as Matt's face goes completely serious, his eyes moving left and right as he tries to read the room. Foggy holds his ground. "That mark doesn't look like it came from a door, Matt; it looks like it came from someone's fist. If you could see it, you would understand what I mean. And… this isn't the first time your story and the injury don't match up, either. Talk to me, man. Nobody is this clumsy."

Matthew holds Foggy's gaze - as much as is possible - and pulls the peas away from his eye. The bag crinkles in his fingers as he drops his hand into his lap. "Foggy. I am _totally blind_ , no light perception, living in an overcrowded world made for sighted people. _I_ am this clumsy."

Guilt flashes through Foggy like a physical pain. He crosses the room and sits on Matt's bed beside him, his voice softening somewhat but not backing down. "I know that. And I'm not trying to be insensitive, but Matt… You look like you've been in a fight. Again. If... " God, this is uncomfortable. Foggy plows onward. "If you're in some kind of University fight club and you can't talk about it, then fine, that's fine, but - if… if someone's targeting you…"

Matt looks slightly affronted, but he keeps his cool, somehow. Matt always does. "I am not in Fight Club. And nobody's 'targeting' me. I'm just… blind, Foggy. It takes me a while to develop spatial awareness for a new place. It's guesswork til then."

"You'd never been in that part of the building before?" Foggy finishes for him.

Matt shakes his head.

That still leaves some unanswered questions. Like, why did this only start happening some six months ago? And why doesn't Foggy ever seem to witness it? But maybe the answer to both is that they have fewer classes together this term. Nobody to help guide Matt across campus between classes. It's not a complete theory, but Foggy doesn't feel like prodding his friend any further - it's embarrassing for both of them. It'll do for now.

Finally, Foggy nods his understanding. He knows Matt can feel the movement through the bedsprings. "Okay. Sorry. I worry, dude, I'm not gonna lie…"

Matt grins. "You know I've been blind a lot longer than I've known you, right?"

Sheepishly, Foggy chuckles. "Yeah. Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Matt says, nodding slightly.

"Was she hot? The girl who hit you with the door?"

With a widening smirk, his roommate shrugs. "She sounded hot, while she was apologising profusely…"

"You always know. It's uncanny."

"It's a gift," replies Matt. "What can I say?"


End file.
